


Cooks in the Kitchen

by x_los



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (1963), Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-30
Updated: 2012-12-30
Packaged: 2017-11-22 23:47:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,962
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/615724
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/x_los/pseuds/x_los
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Doctor's TARDIS interprets 'lock your coordinates' as 'return to the last time your coordinates were locked.' The Brig isn't sure about the Doctor's new lab assistant. The Master hates Old Spice. Delgado!Master just wants Ten to eat more.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cooks in the Kitchen

Title: Cooks in the Kitchen  
Rating: NC-17  
Author: [](http://x-los.livejournal.com/profile)[ **x_los**](http://x-los.livejournal.com/)  
Pairing: Three/Simm!Master/Delgado!Master/Ten  
Prompt: Artist's Choice, from [](http://best-enemies.livejournal.com/profile)[ **best_enemies**](http://best-enemies.livejournal.com/) ' table challenge, cleaned response from the b_e Anon Meme  
Beta: [](http://deborah-judge.livejournal.com/profile)[ **deborah_judge**](http://deborah-judge.livejournal.com/)  helped with the tone shift and the silliness level.  
Summary: The Doctor's TARDIS interprets 'lock your coordinates' as 'return to the last time your coordinates were locked.' The Brig isn't sure about the Doctor's new lab assistant. The Master hates Old Spice. Delgado!Master just wants Ten to eat more.   
  
  
The Master stepped out of the TARDIS, only to practically fall onto the bemused, velvet clad version of the man he’d just left whimpering his name at the end of the universe. Which couldn’t be right. The data screen had been clear on the grisly details--insistent, even, he was getting the feeling that the kidnapped TARDIS didn't like him terribly. The Doctor had coordinate-locked his ship to drop the Master sometime in the early 21st century, with no room for maneuvering a few decades to the right. And so the Master had to be suffering from post-regeneration dementia, because he couldn't possibly be  _here_ \--  
  
  
Unless the Doctor hadn’t properly maintained all the safety screens that kept TARDISs traveling super-relative long distances from latching onto each other as point of reference and colliding into the same point of space-time and fusing... oh who was he kidding, it was the _Doctor’s_  TARDIS—the Master could congratulate himself on his luck that the senile thing hadn’t arbitrarily decided he had a deep need to visit somewhere halfway across the universe, smack in the middle of something life-threatening.  
  
  
He groaned weakly, dizzy, his recent regeneration catching up with him.  
  
  
“You’re  _such_  a fuckup,” he complained to the younger Doctor with a groan, “Can’t even manage to  _maroon_  me correctly!”  
  
  
The Doctor wasn’t left in too much doubt as to who he was holding. “Regeneration sickness? My, how you do go through bodies.”  
  
  
The Master sneered, “Don’t get your hopes up, I’m still alive and well barring a slight cough from a few too many of the finest Cubans, if I’ve got my dates right—”  
  
  
The Master abruptly wilted, dropping unconscious with no warning. His torso draped over the Doctor’s arm, his body appearing to have all the tensile strength of overcooked pasta.  
  
  
The Doctor signed and dragged the Master back into the TARDIS from whence he’d come. The TARDIS as the Doctor saw it still looked to be his own non-functioning one. If there’d indeed been a fusion between it and the future-TARDIS the Master had arrived in, as he suspected, it was in dimensions he couldn’t currently access. In effect his TARDIS was hiding her vulnerable future-self from the paradox by tucking the new-comer away where no one could touch her. The Doctor rolled his eyes at having not one but two versions of his ship and  _still_ being stuck on Earth.  
  
  
*  
  
  
The Master thought he would gag on all the ‘old chaps.’  
  
  
The Doctor had decided the Master was too dangerous to be allowed to run about the country until his proper Doctor came to collect him. He likewise reasoned that the humans simply wouldn’t understand the necessity of keeping  _this_  version of the Master somewhere safe, but only until the future Doctor arrived. They wouldn’t be able to reconcile the need to keep temporal stability with the moral imperative of locking the Master up and throwing out the key.  
  
  
Lethbridge-Stewart especially wouldn’t take kindly to such an arrangement, and so the Doctor was trying to pass the Master, or rather ‘Harold Saxon,’ off as a new assistant on an internship from Cambridge, forwarded to him by Liz. The Doctor was even now making one of his revoltingly chummy speeches about how the young lad would be able to help him on the scientific projects on which Jo, dear though she was, just couldn’t be of use.  
  
"He's keen on the experience, and he's assured me his research grant will cover his salary." The Doctor waved an elaborately cuffed hand negligently. "I know you care about that sort of thing. You tell me often enough that UNIT's inadequately funded. Often in exhausting detail after I've damaged something or other in pursuit of a solution. So we're in no position to turn down free, qualified help, are we, Brigadier?"  
  
  
The Brigadier observed the slender, elegant, young man. He reminded the Brigadier strongly of someone else. Harry Saxon kept darting awkward, slit-eyed glances at the Doctor so compulsively he must not even realize he was doing it. The Brigadier mentally added a sub-file to the conclusions he’d already come to about the Doctor, specifically those in the general area of how he might have come to know the nuisance currently plaguing them, who dearly wanted the Doctor to address him as ‘Master.’  
  
  
Lethbridge-Stewart was, above almost all else, a military man. He believed in discretion, discipline, and ignoring the Doctor’s frequent bouts of ridiculousness in hopes that they would take the hint and obligingly fade out of existence, leaving behind a capable, uncomplicated scientific adviser who actually gave a damn about military procedure and didn't question his authority on a daily basis. The Brigadier had no delusions as to that ever coming to pass, but it was better than attempting to accommodate the alternative into his already distended worldview. He did not comment as to his suspicions. With a raised eyebrow he stamped Saxon’s UNIT pass and hoped, as was usually the case, that the Doctor knew what he was doing.  
  
  
  
*  
  
  
‘Harry Saxon’ found that working provisionally for UNIT largely involved passing the Doctor test tubes and the like. He couldn’t even sneak off because he’d risk running into his former self, also trapped on Earth, and he could complicate his own preexisting plans. Not that he liked to admit it, but he was rather relying on his Doctor to come pick him up, and the Master wanted to be where he was most likely to arrive.  
  
Waiting was testing his admittedly short patience. The Doctor sang and whistled in the lab and didn’t always remember to thank the Master for the passed tools. It was indignity beyond bearing. It was  _ironic_  in the cheap, tawdry, Alanis Morissette song sense. He made up for it by sulkily refusing to help the Doctor work on the TARDIS. Not that it mattered: the machine was now co-ordinate locked in addition to being disabled by the High Council, and thus of no use to either of them.   
  
  
A few days into the working relationship Jo was out for the afternoon and they were having a loud row over the sample analysis. The Master could feel a mad grin twitching its way onto his face through the argument. The Doctor’s eyes had a bright glint he couldn’t quite smother. Naturally, they needed to stand quite close to properly shout in each other’s faces.  
  
  
“Oh  _use_  the lithium, you bloody idiot,” the Master hissed, “See if it doesn’t catalyze! You’ll have no sample left. I hope you burn your idiotic lacy sleeves off in that crucible you’re not watching.”  
  
  
The Doctor turned the heat on the crucible down without looking at it. “Kindly shut up, would you? If you want to methodically prod at this with something non-reactive for a few hours, be my guest. Some of us have more important things to do.”  
  
  
“You would  _never_  have passed xeno-organic molecular chemistry without me,” the Master taunted, poking the Doctor's chest with one finger, “And I don’t think you’d have any idea of what to do with a lab table if it bit you in the arse.”  
  
  
“Really,” the Doctor put down the sample tongs he’d been wielding, “No idea?” They'd been lightly sniping all week--working together perfectly only to deliberately do small things to get on each other's nerves. Each was trying to provoke a confrontation, and then derailing the other's efforts in turn by being achingly polite, refusing to get offended. It had keept the tension between them at an insistent boil.  
  
  
“None  _whatsoever,_ ” the Master leaned even further forward, drumming his fingers on the cool black surface of the table with barely-restrained frantic energy.  
  
  
In a blur he was up on the lab table with the Doctor over him, the Doctor’s mouth on his with intent, and he smirked into the Doctor’s moving lips, having locked the door half an hour ago and been his most irritating, in hopes of causing precisely this reaction, ever since. This Doctor kissed him so  _aggressively_ , and the Master broke off for a second to give a short, sharp laugh.  
  
  
“Such a man of  _action_ ,” he oozed sarcasm, “I suppose at least one of your regenerations had to be capable of taking the initiative, just by sheer dint of the numbers.”  
  
  
“And yet how is it that none of yours  _yet_  is capable of staying quiet,” the Doctor countered, using his weight to press the Master’s torso down to the table, shoving his tongue down the Master’s throat decisively. He aligned their bodies so that their cloth-covered erections dragged teasingly at each other. The Master made a muffled noise and threw a leg up around the Doctor’s back, letting it slide down slowly to rest on the Doctor’s ass, feeling the drag of the velvet coat across the skin of his ankle.  
  
  
The Doctor deftly opened the Master’s jacket, his shirt, the top button and then the zipper of his trousers, making a long, slow reveal of it. He sucked at the Master’s neck in a way that was going to leave a hickey that was sure to make poor Jo blush if she noticed and took a second to think about it. The Master twisted and snarled and bucked under him, wanted to control the encounter he started, but the Doctor wasn’t any more interested in the Master’s plans for this than he was in the merits of the Master’s latest mad scheme, or whatever other ridiculousness he concocted.  
  
  
The Doctor pulled the other man's cock with bruising force, and the Master’s hands jerked, swept off the bank of graduated cylinders next to him—he could hear the glass breaking against the tile floor.  
  
  
“That,” the Doctor panted, “Is terribly expensive equipment you’ve just ruined.”  
  
  
“Tough,” the Master returned unsympathetically.  
  
  
The Doctor swept a rough, calloused thumb over the head of the Master’s cock and  _pressed_ on the frenulum in retribution. The Master threw his head back. His hands shot to the Doctor’s shoulders.  
  
  
“You’ve no respect for my things, you know,” the Doctor accused in a hiss.  
  
  
“Nope,” the Master agreed cheerfully, thrusting up into the Doctor’s palm. “ _None._ ”  
  
  
The Doctor was unscrewing a tub of machine lubricant, and the Master felt his trousers being tugged down. His eyes went wide.  
  
  
“Oh no you don’t!” He tried to surge up, but the Doctor pressed him back down with a gentle, firm hand at the center of his chest and a correction.  
  
  
“Oh yes,” and the Master twitched on one slick finger, his body brand new and hungry for sensation, “I do.”  
  
  
“Nngh!” The Master protested when the Doctor added a second finger and curled them in a way that made him melt, “ _Fine_ ,” he conceded, “But tonight it’s my turn. I hope for your sake that you’re  _really_  fond of hand cuffs.”  
  
  
The Doctor coughed tellingly. “That’s rather beside the point. Focus on the pleasures of moment,” he chided, easing himself in. He needn’t have said anything—the Master’s attention wasn’t on anything but the Doctor as his new body stretched to accommodate him.  
  
  
“Alright?” The Doctor asked, and the Master nodded, breathlessly, smile stretching into a mocking Cheshire grin.  
  
  
“Is that it?” he tried to scoff dismissively, thinking it  _must_ be, and it was respectable if it was, but the Doctor raised an eyebrow and shoved himself all the way in without further coddling. He left the Master scratching at his fabric-clad shoulders, giving an embarrassing little  _shriek_ , because apparently that was emphatically  _not_  it.  
  
  
“You  _bastard_ ,” the Master hissed, “You set me up for that!”  
  
  
“Maybe a little,” the Doctor admitted with a breathless chuckle, “But I wish you’d seen the look on your face.”  
  
  
“Kodak, I’m sure.” The Master breathed for a moment, rolled his eyes, and muttered 'show off' even as he shifted his hips experimentally and nodded, feeling good to go.  
  
  
The Doctor started something slow that turned into something hard and quick and smacking as soon as the Master started gripping his hips and grunting out obscene demands for more from between his clenched teeth, and then little pleas when the Doctor refused to take orders.  
  
  
As usual, the Master couldn’t shut up. He bit his lip to prevent the particularly filthy praise that insisted on spilling out from inflating the Doctor’s already substantial ego, and the Doctor decided to oblige the Master’s apparent new-found respect for silence by gagging him with one of his silk handkerchiefs and holding the Master's hands pinned above his head. Determined to give as good as he got, the Master didn't take advantage of the almost decorative weakness of a grip he could certainly have struggled out of. His dark eyes glinted up at the Doctor, furious and aroused, as he hissed smothered threats at the Doctor through the wet silk.  
  
  
“Better?” The Doctor asked with a breathy laugh, going a bit slower, letting them catch their breath, letting it build.  
  
  
The Master tried to comment through the gag. The Doctor gathered both the Master's wrists in one hand, freeing his right to attend to other matters. He plucked the gag out with an index finger for a moment and arched an eyebrow. "Blegh. This tastes like your cologne. Is my mouth going to be  _musky_  all day? I  _hate_  musky!"  
  
  
"Now shut up, you," the Doctor tried for severe and ended up half snickering, "We're in the middle of some perfectly serious sex here, and you needn't go on about my absolutely legitimate scent choice. I'll have you know Old Spice is a very respectable representative of the Oriental olfactive family."  
  
  
The Master laughed at him, wiggling one of his own arms free of the Doctor's lax grip and smacking his shoulder. "Old Spice?  _Old Spice_? I could  _never_  figure it out and it was--But that's so  _stupid_! Look, can't you afford something that doesn't come in a bottle shaped like a buoy? Isn't UNIT paying you decently?"  
  
  
"As if I'd accept money! And besides, it's a classic, masculine blend! It leaves a man feeling invigorated and refreshed!"  
  
  
"That's just one of their adverts, isn't it?"  
  
  
Silence. The Doctor pretended to be busily occupied with the whole thrusting business, with extras, but the Master absolutely refused to be distracted from winning his point, no matter how good that trick with the knuckles was.  
  
  
"Isn't it, Doctor? In your desperation to defend your choice of lame, mass-market cologne, you spat out the first thing you could remember about it, and it was a cheesy advert."  
  
  
"You're making me loose my concentration," the Doctor replied primly. "Not another word from you."  
  
  
The Master nodded with deep, exaggerated solemnity and pantomimed zipping his lips shut. The Doctor gave him a quizzical look for an instant. Then both erupted into giggles.  
  
  
"Stop it!" The Doctor insisted, tying to school his twitching, amused expression, which threatened to fall back into laughter at any moment. "You prattle on like--like an utter twit! And then you add insult to injury via  _mime_!"  
  
  
"Shan't." The Master shook his head. "And you'll be one to talk, just  _wait_  till you meet your tenth. Oooh," a thought came to him, "Or better yet  _make me_  stop it. I couldn't talk if I were suitably--mmph!"  
  
  
Gag back in his mouth, the Master was thoroughly psychically groped. The Doctor, who had the advantage of a lot of skin-to-skin contact to work with, pressed his mind down hard on the nerve centres which controlled the movement of the Master's arms, immobilizing them more completely than any tie could have. The Master might have fought the hold off--the Doctor had never cared to exercise his telepathy enough to develop it into all that formidable of an instrument. But there was something flattering about all the attention, all the focus it took for the Doctor to maintain that finely-wielded power over him, the stronger psychic. The Doctor's fierce determination was centered in the Master's mind, lavished on his body. The Doctor was thinking now of nothing in the universe but  _him_ ,  _Master Master Master_  tumbling through the Doctor's open, penetrative consciousness in a litany. It was several of the Master's most thoroughly bulletproof kinks all at once. He was grateful something was obstructing his voice, because otherwise the fact that he was making incoherent noises to begin with rather than words-muffled-by-silk would have been immediately apparent.  
  
  
The Master was nearly on the edge when the Doctor slammed to a halt upon hearing the door creak open. The locked door. With some foreboding, both turned to look towards it.  
  
  
Standing in the lintel with a flustered, jealous, morbidly interested expression was the last person either of them wanted to see at the moment.  
  
  
“Oh no,” the Doctor groaned. “Shut that behind you, would you?”  
  
  
The Master—the older-looking, beardier version, did so with a swift kick.  
  
  
“My dear Doctor,” and there was a wealth of acid in the tone, “I came to give you a gentleman’s warning of my latest, but I would have called ahead if I’d known you’d be so terribly  _busy_.”  
  
  
“Ah, well,” the Doctor gave a lazy smile and casually gave the bound Master’s cock a firm stroke that had him shooting his hips off the table. The Doctor’s eyes never left those of his (clothed) rival, who watched the proceedings with something like mounting rage, “I think you’ll find I’m never too busy for you, old chap. Anything in particular to tell me?”  
  
  
“Oh, it can wait,” the Master folded his arms over his chest. “Who might this be?”  
  
  
“My new assistant, actually,” the Doctor continued to toy with the cock in his hand, oblivious to the furious glare of the Master below him.  
  
  
“I didn’t think you’d be taking up beastiality, but desperate times, I suppose,” the Master casually examined the nails of his left hand, “And perhaps some inherent weakness in your character that leaves you susceptible to the latest young thing to catch your eye.” The Master’s icy, polite tone could have refrigerated whole industrial kitchens. “Lovely to meet you, I’m sure.” He didn’t bother looking at the Doctor’s partner, to whom he’d addressed the remark.  
  
  
“You might want to take another look,” the Doctor advised, “I think you’ll find you’ve been introduced.”  
  
  
Irritated, the Master glanced for an instant at the gagged man, crossing his arms over his chest. His gaze lingered longer—there was something almost—no. His eyes widened. No, it couldn’t be. The man on the table, taking advantage of the Doctor's lapse in concentration, freed his nerves and crossed  _his_  arms over  _his_  chest. He muttered something poisonous through his gag. The Master stepped forward and eased the silk out of the other man’s mouth. “Took you long enough,” the man on the table spat.  
  
  
“What on earth are you doing here?” The less disheveled Master demanded.  
  
  
“Playing tiddlywinks!” The Master still filled with the Doctor’s cock rolled his eyes, “Could I get back to it?”  
  
  
“Oh,” the standing Master threw up his hands and took a step back, “By all means.”  
  
  
“You don’t have to go just yet,” the Doctor said.  
  
  
“I hadn’t any such intention,” the Master assured him, replacing the gag over the half-hearted threats of his future self. “Oh come now,” he scoffed, “I  _know_  you like it.” Out of what he insisted was 'purest coincidence,' which didn't fool the Doctor for an instant, much less his future self, the newly-arrived Master happened to have handcuffs on him that he was quite willing to lend to the cause.  
  
  
The Doctor resumed, and after a minute the Master put a friendly hand on the Doctor’s back and piped in with a suggestion that had the gagged Master twisting wildly and his younger regeneration chuckling, casually running a proprietary hand across the Doctor’s velvet coat.  
  
  
“Now,” he continued pleasantly, “I believe you’ll find that if you—”  
  
  
“Backseat driver,” the Doctor accused with a smile.  
  
  
“I’m helping!” The Master protested innocently.  
  
  
“It rather spoils the spontaneity if he can  _hear_  you acting as a prologue to the action,” the Doctor pointed out.  
  
  
“Well then,” the Master stepped up to whisper his idea into the Doctor’s ear, hand moving over the Doctor’s as they consulted, guiding him where he thought the Doctor should go.  
  
  
“Mm,” the Doctor agreed, following along, “But then what do you think about this?” Below them the Master thrashed under that particularly good idea.  
  
  
“Oh,” the younger Master raised an eyebrow in challenge, “I’m entirely for it.”  
  
  
Gasping as the Doctor rolled a nipple between his thumb and forefinger exactly  _right_ , the older Master looked up to find consulting slipping into sucking at each other’s mouths as the Doctor fucked him. He rolled his eyes. He forgot on occasion how very stupid they could be about each other.  
  
  
The kicked-shut door wooshed open and slammed with a clatter. All of them looked left, caught like deer in headlights. This looked even  _worse_.  
  
  
“There you are!” A frantic creature with over-gelled hair and a pinstripe suit rushed up to the table, casually flicking the door locked behind him with a quick point of his sonic screwdriver. “I’ve been looking everywhere! I was worried you’d managed to drive it through the void or something! Listen, I really am sorry. So incredibly sorry. Sorry to an  _infinite_  degree. Let’s please don’t be like this, with the running, and the scarpering off and doing past versions of me—oh, hello, me! Brilliant to see you, love the jacket! I would rethink the haircut though, anyway—just to be petulant. Please, just calm down and say you’ll talk to me?”  
  
  
The older Doctor stared at the Master with desperate eyes that were practically pools of adoring neediness. They made the Master 1) want to spend the rest of his life doing wicked, wonderful things that kept the Doctor looking at him just like that and 2) wish he’d had one fucking uninterrupted opportunity to come in the last hour.  
  
  
The Master tried to say something around the gag, and, anxiously, the newly-arrived Doctor removed it.  
  
  
“Shut  _up_. Yes, we’ll talk. For right now just let me get laid, all of you?”  
  
  
“Oh,” the Doctor bit his lip, then perked up. “Can I help?”  
  
  
“What’s your Ritalin outlay look like?” The bearded Master asked his older self, staring bemused at the hyperactive, wild-haired Doctor. “I can only imagine it's astronomical. And do you ever  _feed_  him? You must spend half your time dodging sharp edges—rather like negotiating an encounter with a porcupine.” The Master marveled.  
  
  
“Excuse me,” the older Doctor's chin jutting defiantly didn't quite disguise the pout in his voice, “I manage, thanks!” His voice took a turn to the purely petulant and defensive. “Never  _been_  so energetic, but I don’t see how that’s a negative.”  
  
  
“Oh,” asked the younger Master, suddenly much more interested, “Really? Perhaps you might be inclined to demonstrate. Just out of—”  
  
  
“Excuse me! Less compare and contrast, more ‘can I help!’” The bound Master insisted, and again there was blissfully rapid movement inside him, and his Doctor’s mouth licking at his (he began to appreciate that this Doctor might have a serious oral fixation—which was nothing short of wonderful), and all was right with the universe.


End file.
